


I Forget Just Why I Left You (I Was Insane)

by annegirlblythe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood Wards, Catharsis fic, Character Study, Forgiveness, Gen, Grief, Harry is sensitive and impulsive, Number 12 Grimmauld Place, Post Battle of Hogwarts, Pre-Drarry, Reflection piece, Self-Indulgent, mentions of fred's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 21:05:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8462914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annegirlblythe/pseuds/annegirlblythe
Summary: Harry hears that Number 12's personality has improved in the weeks since the Battle of Hogwarts, and finds unexpected visitors when he goes to investigate the claim. They're all just grieving. "This is Harry’s house, now. He’s had enough of people traipsing through it, thank you very much. He speaks, then, loudly enough to make both figures visible startle. “Adding trespassing to your list of charges?”"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Chainsmokers' "Closer." It doesn't have anything to do with the story, really, but I was listening to the song while writing, and the tone was really influenced by it.

Mundungus, thief though he was, had been right when he told Harry about the altered personality of post-war 12 Grimmauld Place. It had been a surprise when he turned up at the Burrow, and Bill had almost kicked him out before he got a chance to talk to Harry, but Harry was glad he’d heard the news about his house.

 Because now he’s here.

 The energy of the house is indeed different. He marvels at the fact that the house is his, now, wonders if he even wants it. An absent thought is spared for Kreacher, who would normally be scrabbling around somewhere in the filthy house.

 Harry wanders through it, cataloguing all the rooms, seeing Sirius everywhere. His godfather’s presence seems to be in the very walls of the place, as well as tied to every ugly family heirloom on every dusty table. Framed photographs and flower vases alike make Harry sigh as he lights the way in from of him with his wand.

 He remembers Sirius moping by the kitchen table, bad-mouthing Dumbledore to Moody when they’d thought themselves out of earshot, debugging the living room walls and dutifully magicking away doxies, consoling those who had been verbally attacked by his mother’s portrait, clashing loudly with Mrs. Weasley at every possible opportunity, asking Harry how he’d been and genuinely listening for the answer, laughing with Lupin as if the two were perpetually in a private joke. He wonders which of these snapshots his godfather would want to be remembered by.

 He’s still grieving Sirius just as much as ever, even knowing so many more losses since. It’s been barely three weeks since the Battle of Hogwarts, and he hits the same mental walls, the same dark, winding places within him when his thoughts flit to Fred, who Harry had loved just as much as he’d loved Sirius. He’s not used to either loss, not in the way he’s used to his parents’, or even Dumbledore’s, who had never been his in the first place.

 Grimmauld Place almost seems to know how’s feeling, as ridiculous as it sounds. As he walks through the house, feet nearly crunching the ancient carpet, Harry passes a particularly ugly family portrait of a middle aged woman, vaguely resembling Dolores Umbridge, who is fast asleep, large mouth smacking with each exhale, and remembers his first time here. The day was characterized in his memory by his own basest emotions - fear and anger. He’d been terrified of being thrown out out of Hogwarts, and furious at being kept in the dark all summer. But the following evening, after the trial, after he knew for sure his standing as a Hogwarts student, and everything was looking brighter, the house had held everyone Harry loved. Sirius, Hermione, Ron and Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys, and sometimes Hagrid, Lupin, or Dumbledore. He hadn’t had to worry, during those days. Everyone he needed was close at hand.

 Currently, of course, The Burrow housed everyone living that Harry loved, but it was shrouded in grief rather than hope.

 More recently, when he’d been here with Ron and Hermione, Grimmauld Place had seemed colder, hollower, lonelier. He remembers their entwined hands, his first jolting realization that his two best friends had a love that did not depend on him. He looks for a moment at the couch where Hermione had slept that night, and thinks about the two of them now. Besides the occasional inappropriate snogging, Harry rather liked the dynamic between his two best friends. Of course, the gauzy sort of limbo they were living in now wouldn’t always be the case, but he enjoyed the openness with which they found comfort in each other.

 Harry wanders a few more of the downstairs rooms, thinking of the dinners in the dimly-lit dining room, and Mrs. Weasley’s bustling presence in the kitchen, reminding Harry that there was love outside of turmoil in his head.

 As he ascends the stairs, he can feel the presence of others in the house.

 He immediately draws his wand, the surge of adrenaline that’s running through him a relief after so many days of paranoid safety, and casts a Muffliato spell over himself, nonverbal and instinctual, so he won’t be heard. The speed with which he assumes his natural state of defense doesn’t surprise him, exactly, but he knows he’ll recount it to Hermione, later.

 He takes slow, careful steps towards the back bedroom, where he can hear faint voices. The door to Sirius’s mother’s bedroom is ajar, and two blonde figures stand at the window. One is more familiar than the other, but the quiet way they’re looking at each other makes Harry pause before calling out.  
He wonders at the relief he feels. Why should the sight of Narcissa Malfoy and her son be anything but a threat, after the years Harry had spent suspecting Draco at every turn? What are they doing here? How had they gotten in? Harry wonders, but soon the thoughts become slightly angrier.

 What are they doing here and how did they get in!? This is Harry’s house, now. He’s had enough of people traipsing through it, thank you very much. He speaks, then, loudly enough to make both figures visible startle. “Adding trespassing to your list of charges?”

 Narcissa turns, seeming to gather herself. She’s tall, graceful, and though Harry wouldn't call her pretty, exactly, he can see why she’s successful in her position as the matriarch of both the Malfoy and Black bloodlines. He has not seen her, or indeed, spared her much thought since the night of the Battle.  
“Apologies,” she says, her voice low, and nonthreatening, though more musical than it had been in his ear, slightly more alive with her son well and standing near her. “We did not realize my cousin left the house to you, until the House Elf approached us.”

 “What are you doing here?” Harry asks, trying not to sound as accusatory as he feels.

 It’s Draco who answers, his voice soft. “We’re looking at properties owned by the House of Black.”

“Why?” Harry shoots, before he can stop himself.

 “The Manor was possessed by the Ministry pending our trials, Potter. Surely you’ve heard.”

 “I haven’t heard much of anything these days,” Harry answers, then, considering, “I’m sorry about the Manor.”

 Narcissa, to Harry’s surprise, straightens even further. “The ideals that built our home are no longer accepted by those from whom we gained our power. In fact, we may be stripped of all the rest of it, too.”

 For everything that happened, Harry knows that without this woman’s intervention, without this mother’s love, the War could have ended very, very differently. “I never thanked you for saving my life in the Forest. If you’ll tell me who’s handling your case at the Ministry, I could testify for you,” he hears himself saying. He almost adds a qualifier, almost says, “You, but not your son, and certainly not your husband,” but he can tell from the way Draco has exhaled that his meaning is clear.

 The window framing the mother and son comes to a harsh architectural peak a feet above Draco’s head, and he meets Harry’s eyes. For the first time, they look at each other as equals, almost as allies. “Her lawyer is Mafilda Hopkirk,” he says, not unkindly, “and they’re resting her case on supporting her family. If you could testify about the Forest, it would... She might stand a chance. Then I could go to Azkaban without worrying about her.”

 “Draco!”

 “What? It’s true, isn’t it?”

 She cuts him off. “We are not having this conversation here.” Then, hesitating, looking at Harry, she finally says, “Thank you for your generous offer, Mr. Potter, I appreciate it. We’ll leave you to your house. Apologies for trespassing. Draco, let’s go.”

 They brush past him, mother leading son, both holding themselves tall and straight, both blonde and fierce and neither as scary as they’d like to be, both as scared of the future as Harry is.

 Without pausing to consider, Harry turns, takes Draco’s arm wildly.

 The youngest Malfoy turns, looking shocked and almost offended at being touched. Harry lets go, quickly, says, “You can stay here. If you want to. I can’t imagine the Ministry’s other refugees are kind to you.”

 Narcissa turns, too, seizing Harry up as if his has nefarious intentions. Everyone in her life has, in the last few years, it’s no wonder she doesn’t trust this offer.

 “I mean, I assume the blood wards let you in. The place was pretty well protected otherwise...maybe, until the trial.”

 Draco, too, is trying to discern Harry’s intent. “In exchange for what?”

 “Nothing. For my life, in the Forest. For...whatever you want to be for.”

 “Are you sure?” Narcissa asks. “What about my husband?”

 A stab of regret seizes Harry at this, but he knows he won’t be able to live in the house himself, anyway. Not without feeling the heavy way he does now. “Him, as well. For a few weeks. Until your trial, I guess.”

 “That’s very kind,” Narcissa says, not smiling, but looking at him with warmth. “Draco, thank your friend for his kind offer.”

 “He’s not - thank you, Potter. Harry. Thank you, Harry.” Draco seems to be at war with himself as he bites the words out, but for some reason it warms Harry rather than angers him. There’s something vulnerable in it.

 “I’ll be out in a few minutes. I guess I’ll see you at your trial,” Harry says, watching the way the word trial makes Draco flinch. For some reason, he finds that his instinct is to reach out and touch Draco’s shoulder. He curbs it quickly, wondering why he would want to sooth Malfoy. At all. Ever. Ron would be appalled. Harry knows he won’t tell this part of the strange tale.

 “At the trial, then,” Narcissa finishes, stepping out of the room, Draco following her like an overly nervous puppy. Harry listens to leave them through the fireplace, Malfoy’s cold voice calling, Refugee Shelter, Ministry of Magic, and the roar of the green flame.

 The house pulses gently, as if in sympathy to the whirl of emotion inside its owner's chest, and the furnace crackles to life. According to Grimmauld Place, at least, he’s done the right thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on tumblr at harryjamesheadcanons!


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